


Red Tape

by RicePaper_Fox



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Kapital, Teambuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicePaper_Fox/pseuds/RicePaper_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The kid is untrained, uneducated, and hasn't been indoctrinated. The Council will never give him to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This lands in the same general timeline as "Ruin" and "The Dynamics of Separation," and all vaguely reference each other. I'm still a little reluctant to use the series feature though, since, like Crawford's futures, my continuities tend to be multiple choice.
> 
> I'm going to try to keep this to two or three chapters, lest I shoot myself in the foot by making it longer.

“Crawford-san?”

The precognitive stopped fiddling with his keys and glanced back at the small Japanese boy. Large blue eyes looked up at him warily. He hitched his suit bag higher on his shoulder.

“Just 'Crawford' is fine,” he said.

“Oh...Crawford...ano...”

“Yes, Nagi.”

“What's going to happen to me now?”

Even having foreseen it, Crawford had been amazed at the child's proficiency in English. He hoped that it was an indication that he would pick up German fast enough.

“Now,” he said, unlocking the flat and opening the door. “You are going to get some sleep. Tomorrow you'll be registered with Rosenkreuz, and we'll go from there.”

It was dark and silent inside. Crawford flicked on the entryway light and entered the living area, laying his bag across the back of the couch. With the fourteen hour flight between Tokyo and Munich and landing at nearly two in the morning, he wanted to get sleep, himself. Especially if he had to deal with the bureaucracy of Esset, Rosenkreuz, and a young talent he didn't want to lose control of.

“Wait here a moment,” he said.

He walked down the hall to Schuldig's bedroom. The telepath used it primarily when Crawford was away on business; indeed, when Crawford pushed the door quietly open, there he was. Schuldig looked impossibly young in his sleep. Crawford took a moment to appreciate his pale, slim form and fiery hair spread across the pillow before he made his way across the room and gently shook the telepath's shoulder. Schuldig gave a soft noise and cracked his eyes open, giving a sleepy smirk.

“Hey,” he said. “You brought the kid with you.”

“You already know.”

“Mm. I can hear him worrying from here.”

“Go sleep in my room tonight,” Crawford said. At Schuldig's raised eyebrow he added, “He should have a bed tonight.”

“So you give him mine.”

“Even if I'd known I'd find him in Tokyo, I couldn't justify asking for a larger flat without giving anything away.”

“Right, right.” 

Schuldig pulled himself out of bed and stumbled out the door. Crawford followed him out, and returned to the living room where Nagi still stood awkwardly.

“You can stay in that room for now,” he said.

Nagi walked into Schuldig's room and stood for a moment, and Crawford could see the boy sniffing. Before he could suggest it, the window unlocked and popped open. Crawford shooks his head; the child already had almost full control over his telekinesis. Quietly, he shut the door and went to the room at the end of the hall, already loosening his tie.

He stopped once again to look at Schuldig, laying sprawled on his back, then continued.

“Would you get over here?”

Crawford paused in the removal of his shirt. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“You were the one that woke me up,” Schuldig said. “Now, I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh, really.” Crawford took his time, removing and hanging his trousers with his jacket. So much for getting sleep, not that this wasn't pleasant alternative.

“You've been gone for three weeks.” Schuldig was smiling, as if knowing that he'd already won; he had, but that didn't mean that Crawford was giving in easily.

“I can go longer,” Crawford said, smirking back. He walked to the foot of the bed. “You know I can.”

“Who says I can?” Schuldig asked.

Crawford scoffed. “You don't really expect me to believe that you've been celibate for nearly a month.”

“Well, no,” Schuldig conceded. “But no one appreciates me the way you do.”

“Oh, I see.” 

He knelt on the edge of the bed, then grabbed the Schuldig's ankles and pulled him closer, eliciting a surprised noise from the telepath. Crawford's eyes travelled down the long body, and he leant down to mouth at a scar that extended from the top of Schuldig's hipbone to below a pair of pajama bottoms Crawford was surprised the redhead was wearing. Schuldig gave a loud groan and wrapped his legs around Crawford's back.

“Ssh,” Crawford breathed, moving up till his mouth hovered over Schuldig's . “You don't need that child down the hall to hear.”

“Fuck it,” Schuldig said, and crushed their mouths together.

~ ~ ~

Crawford lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, but he couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about the Recruitment team coming to pick Nagi up in the morning. The moment Nagi entered the system, Crawford stood a good chance of never getting him back. He was sure that, somehow, he'd find a way around it, but he couldn't seem to figure out how.

He turned his head to look at Schuldig, watching his back rise and fall with slow breaths. Schuldig never had trouble sleeping.

“Not never,” came the low grumble. Schuldig rolled over and buried his head into Crawford's shoulder. A hand landed on his stomach. “You keep me awake. Now go to sleep already.”

“Is that an order?”

“You worry about the future too much.”

The statement brought forth a chuckle from Crawford, he could feel a huff of laughter against his shoulder from Schuldig. Like all psychics, Crawford both loved and hated his own nature; precognition was ultimately a passive ability, and there was no forcing the future. Prescients were particularly prone to bouts of anxiety, and by extension insomnia, and Crawford wasn't an exception. He never wanted to imagine what it was like to not know, though.

“One of us has to,” he said, finally managing to close his eyes.

“Say you do refuse to give him up to Recruitment,” Schuldig said, still not opening his eyes. “You'll undergo an investigation by Internal Affairs, and their judgment depends just as much on how much the investigator hates you as the severity of your crime and whatever else he digs up in the process. The kid is untrained, uneducated, and hasn't been indoctrinated. The Council will never give him to you.”

“There's got to be a way to go around the Council.”

“Yeah,” Schuldig said. “Appeal to Liberator.”

Liberator, the Headmaster of Rosenkreuz. No one knew who Liberator was, because no one ever saw Liberator. For all anyone knew, Rosenkreuz was run by the Queen of England. The only way to get to the Headmaster was through the twelve members of the school's Council, who protected the identity of the Headmaster with all the jealousy of a desperate suitor. Which made it a hopeless cause.

“Anyway, before you got to Liberator, you'd have to get the Council,” the telepath continued. “And that's past the Forest of Bureaucracy. You'd need a machete to cut through all that red tape. You should know by now not to deny Rosenkreuz her experiments.”

“Mm.” 

A moment later, Schuldig's words struck him. His eyes snapped open and he sat up slightly to look at the redhead, who gave noise of discontent as he was dislodged.

“What'd you say?”

“A machete in a forest. It's a turn of phrase, Crawford,” Schuldig said, and rolled back over to face away from the American. “A metaphor. Now go to sleep already.”

Crawford lay back down, still looking at Schuldig, and gave a small smile before closing his eyes. With a little luck and a bit of wheedling, he could make this solution work. Politics were one of his strong suits, after all


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about Farfarello: I did, in fact, use his manga character design. There's two years between Assassin and White Shaman and Kapital for his hair to turn white. And I can always explain that away, someday.

Nagi regarded the two creatures in front of him doubtfully. He hadn't known what to expect when he accepted Crawford's invitation, but it wasn't this.

 

A pair of redheads.

 

The first sat atop a stool by the counter separating the kitchen from the main living area, one leg over the other. He was speaking in fast, harsh German, all the while fluffing his long, damp hair. Not unlike a teenage girl would, Nagi thought. Said hair was an unreal shade of fiery orange, and his face, like his body, seemed to be made up entirely of hard, sharp lines.

 

The other one was much quieter, although the little he did seem to speak brought forth much softer, almost melodious sounds. His own hair was dark, almost brown, and cropped close to his head. His face was rounder, and his entire body was riddled with scars and he was missing his right eye. He seemed to be only half listening to the other man, but Nagi got the impression that he didn't miss anything.

 

Nagi couldn't imagine what practical use Crawford could have for either of them, and he was struck by his own stupidity; facing the System or the streets, he had opted to go with the American, knowing nothing but that he was a member of a secret society that operated out of Germany, and accepted Nagi for what he was due to his own abilities that he vaguely described as 'not too different from yours.'

 

Nagi caught a few familiar words—the name Crawford had mentioned in particular—and suddenly he was all ears.

 

“Ano,” he started, then in English, “What _is_ Rosenkreuz?”

 

The two looked at him curiously, before a nasty smirk spread across the first one's face.

 

“It's a bakery,” he said. “We're going to turn you into _ein Pfannkuchen_.”

 

If he was hoping for a drastic reaction from Nagi, he was to be disappointed. All he got was confusion and a deadpanned, “I do not know what that is.”

 

His companion, who seemed equally confused, said, “It's a pancake.”

 

“Actually, it's a type of jelly doughnut.” All three of them turned to watch Crawford, looking as immaculate as ever, enter the room. “Schuldig, you know I don't complain about your dialect as often as I'm expected to, but please don't use confusing terms.”

 

Instead of responding, Schuldig smiled and gestured to the kitchen. “Coffee, Mein Herr?”

 

Crawford's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but all he got in return was an innocent smile. He began to speak to Nagi, in an offhand manner completely different from the way he had in Tokyo, as if procuring his coffee was much more interesting than giving anyone in the room his full attention.

 

“As you may have worked out, this charming young man is Schuldig. Do not learn German from him. And Farfarello. Each has his own special brand of insanity.”

 

Nagi bowed his head slightly, giving a formal, “I am very pleased to meet you.”

 

“You shouldn't be,” Farfarello said, startling Nagi slightly; in English, he had a distinct, rolling accent that he couldn't quite place.

 

Crawford gave a small sigh, as if it was all very tedious, and leaned against the kitchen counter.

 

“We have a Recruitment Team arriving in just under half an hour. Questions any of you may have should be asked now.”

 

“What is Rosenkreuz?” Nagi asked again.

 

“It's a school,” Crawford said. “Or perhaps a research facility. They don't consider there to be much of a difference between the two. They specifically deal with parapsychology—study of psychic abilities—and it's probably the only legitimate center in the world to deal with it. Students aren't given the choice whether to attend, either, and our tuition is life-long, unquestioning obedience to both Esset and Rosenkreuz.”

 

“What is Esset?”

 

Schuldig gave a sound of impatience, and Crawford sent a warning look.

 

“Esset is...hard to define. But in a rough sense, they are one of the defining powers in the world. Esset pulls the strings of world leaders, in governments and economics. Ultimately, they encourage the rule of the strong and the destruction of the weak.”

 

“And what do _you_ do?”

 

“A lot of things,” Crawford said. “Mostly, we act as judge, jury, and executioner for members not associated with the public. We also make decisions as to the fates of non-members who are linked to Esset.”

 

“You're assassins.”

 

There was a moment of silence in the room before Crawford said, “In a sense. We are also responsible for getting the most out of our sources before they are disposed of.”

 

“You're assassins.”

 

“Now that we got that out of the way,” Schuldig interjected. “Do you plan on resisting the Recruitment?”

 

“Of course,” Crawford said.

 

There was another moment of silence, but by the exchange of glances, Nagi got the distinct impression he'd missed something. Farfarello nodded, and there was a strange look in his eyes. Schuldig's lips had tightened.

 

“Who are they sending?” Was Schuldig's next question.

 

“Babayka.”

 

Schuldig froze, and his expression hardened. Farfarello, was looking at Schuldig with one keen, curious eye. Nagi looked at Crawford, who was also watching Schuldig, although his expression unreadable. Nagi got the idea he was looking for a specific reaction.  


“Who is Babai-ka?”

 

“ _Babayka_ ,” Crawford said. “Is a recruitment specialist by the name of Isador Maslovsky. He is one of the only telepaths to become a team leader.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

When Isador Maslovsky had earned his codename, the irony behind it had not been lost on him; he had been only twenty-five when they named him after the old man that stole naughty children in the night. To be a field agent past the age of thirty, though, did make him a bit of an old man. Most were either dead, or had accepted their hard-earned place in research or teaching.  


It wasn't an easy path he took, either, having to adjust to a new system and develop new strategies after the collapse of the Soviet Union. But Isador liked his job, though. It took a care and subtlety that few other departments made use of. And each young psychic that he lured away was untamed potential, ready to be cut and molded into something beautiful and powerful. 

 

He remembered almost every child he brought in the Rosenkreuz, but some stuck out especially in his mind.

 

And Schuldig, especially.

 

Class A telepaths were never totally able to keep things in or out, due to the potency of their abilities, and standing in the entryway with Schuldig only a short distance away, the air practically crackled as they scoped one another out. And what Isador felt and heard disappointed him terribly. So much potential, and yet he could practically taste Crawford's sweat on the German's skin. It disgusted him that Schuldig had allowed a Prescient to run his hands over his body, to allow one inside him, to allow himself to be used and possessed like that.

 

Clairvoyants in general were a smug, overrated lot, but those with Precognition were more so than any.

 

Finally, he turned to Crawford. “Where is he?”

 

Crawford stepped to the side and gestured further into the flat. Isador could give admit one thing, Schuldig could certainly have given himself over to someone worse; Crawford certainly was handsome, and cut an imposing presence. He supposed he must have a trophy cock on top of it. Didn't make Isador hate him any less.

 

Isador stepped forward, followed by two members of his own team that he'd brought: Emeryk Zielinski, a telekinetic from Poland whom he'd worked with for nearly ten years, and Tomas Rosol, an empath he'd had for a little over a year.

 

As he entered, he took in the scene; the child sat straight as a rod on the sofa. Schuldig leaned with a casual grace against a counter, but his focus was entirely on Isador and his team, and it was the first sign of trouble. Across the room was Crawford's other psychic, if he could be called that, also totally focused, and Isador knew that the placement of the three members of Schwarz was entirely strategic. He wondered if Crawford thought him stupid—he'd been doing this a lot longer than the American, and he knew this for what it was—then dismissed the idea. Crawford was Class A, and known to be one of Rosenkruez's golden children. He just didn't care if Isador saw it.

 

“It's a shame you had to come all this way, Babayka, since there's been a change of plans.” Sure enough, there it was. A passive-aggressive statement that, nonetheless, undermined Isador's authority.

 

“Oh really, Oracle?” He could play the game. He hated it, but it was how he retained his status. “And what changes might those be?”

 

“Schwarz will take Naoe Nagi in to be registered.” Damn that smile. “But thank you, for coming.”

 

“By whose authority are you doing this?” Isador asked. “After all, it is outside Schwarz's authority to recruit a psychic at all, let alone go through the registration procedure.”

 

“Don't tell me that I would've gained anyone's approval by leaving behind a young talent, simply because it's not my department,” Crawford said, still smiling pleasantly, danger glinting in his eyes.

 

“You are _expected_ to report any unregistered psychics, and continue with your _own_ work,” Isador snapped.

 

“It's a little late,” Crawford said. The smile was gone. “You may leave.”

 

Isador's patience snapped, and he realized a second too late he'd played right into Crawford's hands. He had reached for his side arm, and he'd barely gotten his hand on it before Schuldig had his own gun pointed at the back of Isador's head. Out of his peripheral, he could see the other one with a knife to Emeryk's throat; Isador hadn't even seen him move. Crawford still stood calmly, hands in his pockets.

 

_Babayka_ . It was Tomas, who thankfully hadn't moved much at all.  _Berserker's a mess, but...his loyalty._

 

_What about it?_

 

_Well, his loyalty toward Mastermind is stronger than to Oracle._

 

Now there was an interesting piece of information. Isador hadn't wanted to even touch the chaos in Berserker's mind, but an empath could often pick up with a telepath missed. And Tomas had picked up an imbalance of power. Isador holstered his weapon and turned toward Schuldig.

 

“Mastermind,” he said. “Could you please ask your cohort to let my telekinetic go?”

 

Schuldig's face flickered with indignation. 

 

“Schuldig,” Isador continued. “How long have we known each other?”

 

This was the reason precognition was overrated; it didn't matter how far ahead Crawford had seen this move, it was still going to rub him in all the wrong ways. He had addressed another leader's subordinate in an informal manner, and had undermined his authority by asking said subordinate to give the orders. He had suggested that he'd known Crawford's lover longer—and perhaps, better—than Crawford himself. The icing on top of it was that Berserker was looking to Schuldig for reassurance.

 

“I don't give the orders,” Schuldig replied, but it sounded like, 'what the fuck are you doing?'

 

_I think we both know who pulls the strings. He'd do anything for you._

 

There was complete silence in the room. And then Isador heard it. A slight clattering, which he realized was the dishes in the cabinets. The child, was strung tight, unsure what to do. Unsure if he should do anything at all. Schuldig's eyes darted in several directions, and Isador could feel him trying to come to a decision.

 

And then there was an explosion of movement. Schuldig's gun hand swung around and he fired a shot directly at Tomas, hitting him in the shoulder. At that exact moment, Crawford threw himself across the room and grabbed Berserker's hand, wrenching the knife away from Emeryk, twisting it behind the smaller man and forcing him onto the ground. The child panicked, and the outlet of power caused a shudder through the flat which brought everyone else to their knees.

 

As soon as it started, it was over. Isador, Schuldig, and Emeryk were all braced against the floor, waiting to see what would happen. Berserker snarled and struggled against the knee Crawford had dug into his back. Tomas lay groaning on his side, bleeding onto Crawford's beautiful white carpet.

 

“Farfarello, stop,” Schuldig snapped.

 

Berserker—Farfarello—went still, but continued to growl. Isador didn't miss the annoyed look Crawford shot his telepath. Isador took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out.

 

“This is out of my hands,” he said. “Congratulations, Oracle, you're going exactly where you wanted. It's up to the Council to decide how to handle this. You had better hope they leave this to Internal Affairs instead of simply demoting you on the spot.”


	3. Chapter 3

Crawford sat silently, listening to the beeping of the heart monitor and the wheezing breaths of the old man in front of him. He had been ordered here the moment they had arrived in Rosenkreuz; until he filed papers declaring Schwarz independent of the school, he was still under the jurisdiction of the head of his college. It was this man, Heinrich Ziegler, who would decide how to deal with him. Heinrich Ziegler, a precognitive half-blind and dying, but still somehow the head of the First College, within which were the three clairvoyant departments.

“Does it frighten you?” Ziegler finally started.

“Does what frighten me?”

“Seeing me like this.”

“No.” It was a half-truth. There was no real danger, and Crawford felt no great remorse that this man was dying. But he looked at Ziegler, old and fragile and bedridden, and remembered what the man had been like when he was younger. Crawford shuddered at the idea of ending up this way himself. Or worse. At least Ziegler was still fully aware of his surroundings.

Or perhaps that would make it worse.

“It's the damn pneumonia,” Ziegler told him. “Second time in six months. I'm not sure why my grandson doesn't just kill me already. He's got his inheritance.”

“Lingering admiration, I suppose,” Crawford said.

“So,” Ziegler said. “I hear you shot one of Babayka's henchmen.”

“Actually, it was Mastermind,” Crawford said. “ And Babayka's being a baby. The bullet hit the shoulder, it's a completely superficial wound. His precious empath will be fine.”

Ziegler gave a wheezing laugh. “You know how those people in Recruitment are. You'd think they never saw a gunshot wound before.”

Crawford gave a small, wry smile. He had only met Ziegler once before he was fifteen, but had been on good terms with his grandson, Frans, growing up. It made Ziegler more or less benevolent toward Crawford, as far as these things went within Rosenkreuz. But that wouldn't help him much, now. He would go in front of Internal Affairs, which acted on behalf of Esset, or to the Council, which was the supreme court of discipline for the school. All he could hope was that Ziegler acted in his best interest.

“Let me ask you, Oracle,” Ziegler said. “What more can the school possibly give you?”

“This telekinetic,” Crawford said. “I need him.”

“You can buy him at Auction, like every other team. You can get any team member that way. And you wouldn't be tied down to Germany. You know that.” Ziegler always had a way of scolding that cut Crawford down to size more effectively than anyone else had ever managed. “And yet you cling to Rosenkreuz's apron strings like an overgrown child. Why has Schwarz not declared independence?”

“It wasn't time,” Crawford said, and he knew it was a cop out that countless prescients had used before him.

“That's our problem, isn't it?” Ziegler said. “We sit around and wait for the right time to come. We like to be safe. Except you aren't a safe person. You took on Berserker. And what's more, you took Mastermind, and you gave him the power to destroy you. Is that the problem? You took on so much uncertainty that you started clinging to Rosenkreuz as a security blanket?”

Crawford didn't answer. He wasn't sure what the answer was, and he knew that it was something he did need to ask himself. He needed a stable factor in his life, more than just himself. But freedom wasn't safe or stable, and declaring independence from Rosenkreuz and becoming a full member of Esset was another step toward that. It was more free than he had ever been here, even in its enslavement.

“I should cut you loose,” Ziegler said. “Give you to Internal Affairs. Instead, I'll make you a deal.”

“Oh?”

“I will give you to the Council, since you know so well how to navigate Rosenkreuz's politics. One last favor. If you get out of this, file your papers. If you give up the ghost, so will I. I should be dead by now, anyway.”

“How will your death benefit me, especially if I'm leaving anyway?”

“I'm sure you'll figure something out.” Ziegler was silent for a moment, and his blue eyes seemed to study the mantel. “Do you know what's so special about you, Crawford? It's that you are incredibly insubordinate, probably more so than any precognitive we've ever had. And yet, your superiors love you for it.”

“I didn't realize I was that bad,” Crawford said.

“Yes you did,” Ziegler said, his eyes drifting back to Crawford. “How about you pay me back for my decision. Tell me an interesting story. Something I don't know yet. No consequences.”

Crawford thought for a moment. “A few years ago, Schuldig and I came across an unregistered clairvoyant. He was in the slums of Nuremberg, in this dingy pub. Who knows how long he'd been taking things to enhance his abilities, but...he had sacrificed everything for Sight. He was an oracle of old, speaking only in half-metaphors. He was completely blind, and had little recognition of the world around him. But he sensed us. That's when I came to the realization that total clairvoyance was possible, because when he spoke to me, he told me both my past and my future. And that night I learned the price for gaining that level of ability.”

“He saw both ways? All ways?” Ziegler's voice was filled with wonder; even though all forms of clairvoyance were linked, it had only been theory that a person could See everything. “What did he say to you?”

“He said I would be consumed by fire,” Crawford said.

It was only a small part of the prophecy, and so much was omitted. That he and Schuldig had seen him separately. That they had agreed that what had been shared was for them alone. If Crawford had no intention of telling Schuldig what was said, he certainly wasn't going to give it to anyone else. But Ziegler seemed to accept this answer, and seemed more wrapped up in the earlier revelation to give the prophecy much thought.

“You have given me something to think about,” the old man said. “You are dismissed.”

Crawford gave a small bow. “Thank you, Herr Ziegler.”

As he rose, a cold, bony hand grabbed his wrist. “A hint, Oracle,” Ziegler said. “I'm sure you know I will not be sitting in on the proceedings. Instead, Frans will be representing my interests. Perhaps you should make some repairs to that bridge. Smoke on it.”

“I don't smoke.”

“Do it for an old man.”

“Yes, Herr Ziegler,” Crawford said, slowly.

He was almost at the door when Ziegler's raspy voice stopped him again. “You should have reported that psychic. Why didn't you?”

Because they wouldn't enslave anyone else to Esset. Because the only future a half-mad clairvoyant had in Rosenkreuz was to be used and abused and tested on.

“We saw no useful purpose,” he answered. “He was a prisoner of his Sight. There was little he could give.”

“Is that so?” Ziegler considered this for a moment. “Alright, then, Oracle. If that's the reason you want to give. I won't tell anyone.”

~ ~ ~

The visitor's wing was eery in its silence; Crawford had only ever stayed there during the Auction, when field teams from around the world were packed into the barracks like sardines. Rosenkreuz hadn't been built to accommodate the number of members Esset would grow to have.

The balcony that adjoined the room Schwarz was in lent an illusion of privilege, and now Crawford sat on the brick ledge fiddling the cigarette he'd stolen from Schuldig. He knew better than to ignore a suggestion put forth by another precognitive, no matter how irrelevant it seemed. With a sigh, he put it in his mouth and lit it. The first inhale burnt in his throat, but he held it in and didn't cough. When he was ready, he slowly let it out through his nose.

“I didn't know you smoked.”

He looked around to see Farfarello leaning against the closed door. He'd left with the impression that both Farfarello and Schuldig were asleep. But if the Irishman wasn't, Schuldig certainly wasn't.

“It's been known to happen when I'm under duress.”

“Where did they take the child?” Farfarello asked.

“To the dorms in the Third College,” Crawford asked, making a vague gesture across the courtyard. Of course they sent Nagi there. The Third College housed the telekinetics, alongside pyrokinetics and electrokinetics.

Silently, Farfarello came to stand at the ledge, then jumped on top of it, looking down. Crawford got the impression of himself standing atop a building years ago, clutching the railing and leaning out as far as he dared. The wind had whipped his hair around as he contemplated the feeling of denying Esset the opportunity to decide his fate. But tonight it was still, and Farfarello had decided his path. Crawford pointed across the courtyard.

“See that building?" he said. “I once saw Schuldig jump from there, fall three stories, and land completely uninjured. I still have no idea how he did it.”

“He's extremely dextrous,” Farfarello said, simply. “You of all people should know that.”

Crawford looked at Farfarello and smiled. “Did you just make an off-color remark?”

Farfarello smiled back, his eye gleaming in the dark. Then his face grew serious again.

“He upset you. The Russian.”

Crawford studied the glowing end of the cigarette. “I've known for a long time that you like Schuldig more than you like me. And I know that, were it to come down to it, you'd choose him over me.”

“Is that why you feel you need the child?” Farfarello asked. “To shift the power back to yourself?”

“Partly,” Crawford responded.

“It doesn't matter, you know,” Farfarello said. “You or Schuldig, it doesn't matter who gives the orders. The time to choose will never come.”

“Do you know these things now?”

“Yes,” Farfarello said, all certainly. “He'd never betray you. He's in love with you.”

Crawford could feel his companion watching him closely for a reaction, and he did the best thing he could think of: he froze completely. This was something he never wanted to hear. He never wanted to consider these ideas at all. He didn't believe in love.

“It doesn't matter whether you believe in it or not,” Farfarello said. “It's there. I wasn't sure about you for a while, but I see it sometimes. When you think no one is looking.”

“Go back to bed,” Crawford said.

Farfarello gave him one of his funny little looks that said that he won, but he jumped down and returned inside. He couldn't figure out what Herr Ziegler had wanted him to learn from all this. Or maybe he'd wanted to give Crawford that last kick off the cliff. All it did was make him angry, though.

Crawford scowled at the barely-smoked cigarette and flicked it out over the courtyard. Watching the orange light arch and disappear, he thought back to the prophecy he'd been given, Sight in its purest form.

_I see trees spilling across the sidewalk, and blue glass in the sun, ringing in the wind. A child who searches a long time for these things. You will be consumed by fire, but you will not die. It is that which makes men strong. The puppeteer's marionettes only pretend to follow their strings. How long will you be a slave to forces you believe you cannot control?_

That had been before he and Schuldig had become partners, back when he had only trusted the telepath on a superficial level. It had been one of the final pushes Crawford had needed, when Schuldig had already been pulling. Right before he had contemplated the freedom in his theoretical suicide. The telepath had spent weeks talking him onto that ledge, mostly without Crawford even realizing what was happening.

“Just jump,” he'd said. “I promise it's not as bad as it sounds.”

This was a leap, too. Schuldig was an unreliable factor. Farfarello was surprisingly reliable, made unreliable by Schuldig. Crawford felt like he was holding on by one hand, and that which kept him from falling into the unknown was Rosenkreuz. But this was a path he had chosen, and Ziegler was right. There was no good or bad time to let go, now. He had to just do it, and trust himself to get Schwarz through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to fill in about the structure of Rosenkreuz as I imagine it without detracting too much from the storyline; I will most likely manage to get a more thorough explanation in next chapter. However, I am also starting a couple other projects to fill in the gaps, and start using the series function to string everything into coherency. And I'll try to stop putting notes on every damn chapter...


	4. Chapter 4

The founders of Rosenkreuz had liked their sacred geometry and numerology, and had arranged the organization of the school to reflect that: three Colleges, each split into three Departments, adding to twelve members, and a thirteenth, known as Liberator, hidden by the Twelve.

And now, the Twelve loomed in a semi-circle above Crawford and Maslovsky, listening to the Russian state his case against Crawford. The reactions among them were mixed, from annoyance and exasperation to boredom or amusement.

Only a few made any difference to Crawford.

Frans Ziegler, who sat in his grandfather's stead as the head of the First College. He was the youngest there, five years older than Crawford, and icy in his demeanor. He had platinum blond hair his grandfather's icy blue eyes. One tier below him sat a woman whom Crawford only knew as Norn; she was only recently appointed head of the Department of Precognition, and it would do well for Crawford to do well by her.

Next to Frans sat Viktor Stolle, the head of the Second College. He was a founding member of Rosenkreuz, the oldest in the room by far, and as strong a telepath as the school had ever seen. The respect he commanded meant his opinion would ultimately be the deciding factor. He and Heinrich Ziegler had long been friends, and he had taken an interest in Ziegler's favorite students, including Crawford. Which meant that, despite the inclination to side with another telepath, Crawford stood a chance with him.

And finally, the head of the Third College, Strega. She was an attractive, dark-haired woman, perhaps reaching forty, or maybe past it. She was also newly appointed, and had a reputation for going against convention. Overall, she seemed a little wearied by the proceedings, annoyed by the feuding. Crawford needed her to like him, though, if he was going to get Nagi out of Rosenkreuz's clutches.

“It seems to me that the issue is whether or not Oracle was aware of Mastermind's impending actions,” Stolle said once Maslovsky had finished.

All eyes turned to Crawford. The American thought carefully how to answer.

“I did not See that he would intentionally discharge his weapon,” Crawford said, finally.

“But you knew that Babayka's subordinate would be shot.”

“I knew that there would be a culmination of events leading to specific contentions between myself and Babayka,” Crawford said.

“There's always been contentions between you two,” one of the members grumbled, which drew forth a general murmur of agreement.

“I did not know exactly,” Crawford said.

“How can you not know exactly, but know anyway?” Strega asked.

“I just did,” Crawford said. 

He could see the members of the First College beginning to accept this; it was at the same time both very hard to prove and extremely plausible. No less than eighty percent of any given clairvoyant's knowledge came from the inexplicable feelings that others referred to as intuition. It was what made other psychics consider them a shifty bunch. After all, how do you prove after the fact that one had prior knowledge of an event?

Crawford tried to gauge the reactions the other Council members. Some were looking to Frans and Norn for approval. Strega seemed doubtful and uncomfortable. Stolle, the old bastard, had his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Tell me, Oracle,” he said, slowly. “How you felt directly after these events. What were your emotions?”

Damn, but Stolle knew Crawford a little to well. He didn't know how far he could stretch the truth about this. Crawford wanted to have time to think.

“Just take us through your reactions during the whole event as they happened,” Stolle added, smiling. 

The man was clever. The question wasn't aimed at judging Crawford's emotional state. Rather, Stolle was asking how he wished to incriminate himself, with a lie or with the truth. Which meant that his best bet was to say whatever it was that would make them like him more. He turned his head to look at Maslovsky; the Russian was smiling like he had won.

Looking back at Stolle, Crawford said, “The only way I ever feel when Babayka is in the room is general irritation at his existence. I suppose I just regret that it isn't him laying in a hospital bed.” There was a murmur across the room, but he continued. “However, it would have done me little good, and keeping control over Berserker was more important at the time.”

“This is an old story,” Frans said. “Were Schwarz of less value, the solution would be an easy one. As it is, I think that the Council should take time to consider the situation—“

“Stop defending your own,” came a cry from a lesser member. “You prescients always do this.”

“No,” Stolle said, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands. His face was twisted in an old, familiar smirk. “I agree. We should reconvene with our decision in a few days.”

“What is there to decide?” Maslovsky asked angrily.

“What the real issue is,” Strega snapped. “Or maybe how far we're willing to be pulled in each direction. Or perhaps even how important you two and your petty squabbling are.”

~ ~ ~

“You are wasting the Council's time,” Frans said, lowering his teacup and gazing out at the courtyard below. “We all know what this is really about, and quite frankly it's embarrassing. I should just shoot that telepath of yours and be done with it.”

“What good would that do?” Crawford asked, turning his own cup in its saucer.

“It would put an end to this squabbling between you and Isador Maslovsky.”

“I doubt it,” Crawford said. “I'm sure we would just find another reason. I think you should skip shooting Schuldig and do away with Maslovsky.”

Frans gave a snort. Crawford had little doubt that Frans would object to that particular solution, if it didn't put him at odds with the rest of the Council. It was a well-known fact that Frans Ziegler hated telepaths almost as much as Maslovsky hated clairvoyants. Still, Crawford was glad that nobody expected true justice in the Council's decision; he was sure that Maslovsky was making the rounds to convince—in other words, bribe—in his own favor, just as Crawford was doing.

For the first time since sitting down, Crawford looked at the other precognitive. Frans had been a useful ally through his entire time at Rosenkreuz. Crawford wondered what sort of picture the two of them made, sitting on the roof patio meant for staff use, one with dark looks, the other icy. Both tall, both handsome. And both acutely aware of every gesture, glance, expression, word shared.

Heinrich Ziegler had always been very insistent of the importance of such things, and had taught his students well. Crawford remembered a time he had wanted to be Ziegler, back when the man had been full of dignity and elegance.

“You know what I'm going to ask now,” Frans said.

“Why I put up a fight.” Crawford looked Frans dead in the eyes. “I don't want Naoe Nagi to go into the system. I need him.”

“For what?”

“I need him.”

Frans' blue eyes widened, and his hand moved to his knee. Crawford had shot him a few years ago upon Frans' discovery of Crawford's plans for Esset. The bullet had shattered the bone. It had ruined him for any true field work, and to this day Frans had to walk with a cane. They had been brought to an impasse by Crawford's own knowledge of Frans' own ambitions to deconstruct and reconstruct Rosenkreuz's system with himself in charge. And Crawford had better evidence against Frans.

“That is beyond my power to give,” Frans said, finally. “And I'm not sure I want to.”

“You are on the Council.”

“I am standing in,” Frans corrected. “The decisions I give are meant to reflect my grandfather's will.”

“He asked me why you haven't killed him yet,” Crawford said. “I suppose it's one thing to murder a fellow operative, and quite another to attempt to murder a founder.”

“You assume it does me no good to have him alive,” Frans said. “He is a founder, and because of it he will remain a Council member until he dies. Speaking of which, the person you should really be speaking to his Herr Stolle.”

“Should I bother?”

Frans suddenly seemed to deflate. “You know how Rosenkreuz works. You have the First College—prescients have always defended their own, and always will. We're not like the others. There aren't many of us, and our abilities are not aggressive in nature. You have the Precognitive and Clairvoyant Departments. Maslovsky is currently trying to woo the head of the Retrocognitive Department, for all that they're worth.”

The last part came out bitter; retrocognition was as rare as precognition, and considered only a fraction as useful. Crawford could probably count on his hands the number of retrocognitives that had gained any more than a low-level position within Rosenkreuz or Esset.

“Stolle is another story,” Frans continued.

“I would think that the Second College would support their own.”

“The empaths will,” Frans said. “The telepaths probably will, too. But not necessarily Stolle himself, and his vote will outweigh theirs. For whatever reason, that old bastard likes you. That is the relationship you need to foster at the moment. Him, and Sonia Tadesco.”

“Who?”

“Strega.” Frans said it in a scolding tone. “And whatever you do, do not call her 'Frau Tadesco.'”

Crawford chuckled. “I can't picture her as 'Frau' anything.”

“Glad to hear,” Frans said. “You will find her in the staff gardens around lunchtime tomorrow.”

“Did you See this?”

“I don't need to,” Frans said. “She is a creature of habit, and has a tendency to seek out beauty where and when she can. As for Stolle, I have taken the liberty of informing him you will be joining him for a nightcap.”

Crawford made a noise of disgust. “This is revenge for something, I'm sure of it.”

“Take it how you will. I am investing in you, don't—“

“Make you regret it,” Crawford finished. 

It was an old line. Frans cared about Esset only as far as it related to Rosenkreuz, and had no problem with having it out of Esset's control. He had warned Crawford several times, though, that if he took any action against the school, he would do everything in his power to destroy Schwarz. Crawford had no intention of ever having to deal with Special Forces. Besides, in some ways he considered it the least he could do for the school that made him what he was.

Frans gave a sigh. “I need a cigarette,” he muttered.

This startled Crawford. Frans was the product of careful breeding, and had always held a strong aversion to introducing impurities into his system. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since you blew my fucking kneecap out,” Frans snapped. “At first it was to relieve stress. Now it's to...well, relieve stress. I figure it's better than depending on morphine.”

Smoke on it, Ziegler had said. Was it knowledge of the future, or of the fact that his grandson now smoked? Or perhaps the advice, given years ago, that Crawford bring a pack whenever he visited, for occasions such as this? The American had stopped doing so some time ago.

Frans, however, did carry a pack, which he lay on the table between them after taking a cigarette out. Crawford reached over and took one for himself. Frans narrowed his eyes, suspiciously, to which Crawford simply smiled and pulled out a lighter, offering it to his companion. After a few moments—and a drag—Frans turned back to contemplating the students below.

“I need to ask,” he said. “Before I send you on your way. How do you expect the child to get by without going through proper schooling.”

“I can train him myself.”

“Oh, really?” Frans said, laughing. “You are not a telekinetic, and you don't have one on your team.”

“He already has almost total control over his ability,” Crawford said. “I am perfectly capable of indoctrinating him myself, and you know that Schuldig is far advanced in his knowledge of Psychic Theory.”

“And what about your team's function within Esset? Are you just going to take an eight-year-old on a mission and just...make him shoot someone.”

“I don't see why not,” Crawford said, shrugging. “I was younger the first time I killed someone. And it'll be under less stressful circumstances than most students here do so. At least he won't be stabbing an attacker with a shiv the way I did.”

Frans looked at Crawford curiously. “You did that?”

“What can I say? I was too pretty for my own good. And no one was going to help me until I could help myself.” Crawford was silent for a moment, thinking how to word the next part. “Everything that is done in Rosenkreuz is some sort of experiment. From the classes to the chores we're given to monitoring the way we sleep. The whole school is a big social experiment, to figure out the best way to breed the greatest race the world has ever seen. So why not try this? Why not allow a young psychic to be trained with an operational field team?”

“You're too clever for your own good,” Frans said. “Alright, fine. If you can convince our friend Sofia to give over one of her telekinetics to you, I will support the decision. Although, you may find Esset harder to convince than Rosenkruez.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Get rid of him, Crawford.”

 

Crawford barely even glanced at the German reclining on the bed, just continued to study his clothes as if they were the most fascinating thing in the room. Schuldig thought the only fascinating thing was that they had been allowed to bring a change of clothes with them in the first place. Farfarello dangled his legs off an upper bunk and tilted his head curiously.

 

“Get rid of whom?”

 

“Frans Ziegler.”

 

“He's still useful to me,” Crawford said, smelling a jacket sleeve.

 

“This is a dangerous fucking game,” Schuldig said.

 

“We've talked about this.”

 

They had talked about it. Several times. And while all three of them had a penchant for playing with their food, Crawford had this way of holding on _just in case_. And this particular meal had the ability to destroy them. Ziegler had been crippled, Schuldig could pretty much guarantee that the man spent every waking moment coming up with the most satisfying way to kill them both.

 

There as no arguing with Crawford when he'd made a decision, though. All Schuldig could do was sit there and watch Crawford try to decide what to wear to a meeting.

 

“Black or charcoal?” Crawford asked.

 

“Who gives a shit?” Schuldig asked. For all that he knew about fashion, the nuances of one business suit as opposed to another were lost on him.

 

“The charcoal is very understated,” Farfarello said. “But the black speaks of a pallbearer.”

 

This seemed to surprise Crawford as much as it did Schuldig; he wasn't entirely sure how a psychotic teenager who had just gotten his second piercing knew the first thing about suits. But then, Farfarello was always surprisingly astute when it came to making subtle statements.

 

“Fucking Special Forces dress entirely in black.”

 

Crawford hung up the black suit. “I wouldn't want to make it look like I was dressed for my own funeral.”

 

Schuldig dug his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and swore softly. He was down to his last two.

 

“You should quit,” Crawford said, not turning to look at Schuldig.

 

“After you.”

 

That did give the American pause. “I'm never touching another one when I'm out of here.”

 

Schuldig gave a huffing laugh. Crawford had complained about the smell and taste and dependency enough times. They were all good reasons, too. Schuldig had started for the status that they afforded him, just to show others that he had someone who would bring them into the school for him. They were Reds, too, not the weak shit that some students got. Not Crawford, though. Crawford smoked maybe three times a year, and every time he did it was to make some sort of statement.

 

Schuldig supposed he could—and should—quit. But it seemed like such a hassle when he would most likely be dead by thirty, anyway.

 

He stood and made his way out to the balcony, feeling the cool night air hitting his face. Autumn was coming soon, and with it the Auction. Good thing they'd be out of the school by then, or they would have to share this room with at least one other team. Every team had at least one telepath, and Schuldig hated other telepaths.

 

Behind him the door opened, and a moment later he felt Crawford's arms wrap around his shoulders. He felt himself lean back into the embrace.

 

“Do you remember what we talked about, back when we decided to work together?” Crawford said.

 

“We talked about a lot of things,” Schuldig said, leaning his head to look at the American's face. “You made a disconcerting number of promises to me.”

 

“Did I?”

 

“Mm. At least six.”

 

“I told you that you needed to trust me,” Crawford said.

 

Schuldig turned around and put his hands on the taller man's waist. “If I didn't trust you, I would've killed Ziegler myself by now.”

 

Crawford gave a wry smile, and Schuldig felt taken aback. The expression didn't suit him. The smile fell quickly, though.

 

“I told you that there could come a time that I would purposefully hurt you,” he continued. “And I told you not to take offense.”

 

Schuldig grew very still. “What did you do?”

 

“Nothing.” Yet, Crawford's tone said. “I want to remind you of that, though.”

 

Schuldig searched Crawford's face, hoping to get a glimpse of whatever the precognitive had Seen, but as usual the handsome face gave nothing away. Maybe he hadn't Seen anything at all, but it was just intuition. If such a thing truly existed.

 

Crawford wasn't the first person he had ever trusted, but he was the only one who had never let him down. It almost made Schuldig angry how straight-forward Crawford was being about this, as if it took away any future right the German could have at being angry. And he could do nothing but accept it.

 

Finally, Schuldig put his hands on Crawford's neck and kissed him firmly. It only lasted a few moments, in which Crawford pushed for control and Schuldig eventually let him have it. Then they were separated, and Crawford was heading back inside. Schuldig turned slightly and looked out across the courtyard.

 

“Shit.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Crawford took the offered glass from Stolle. The old man's sitting room was always surprisingly sparse, but it was comfortable, deceptively intimate. There were never more than three chairs. Crawford's eyes slid to the familiar side table, the one that had been there from the first time he had visited this room at fifteen. It contained a lamp, an old record player, and a single, black and white photograph of Stolle, Heinrich Ziegler and the deceased Ilse Ziegler in their black SS uniforms.

 

“It's a shame about Heinrich,” Stolle said, sitting opposite Crawford. “I see him in you. More than I do his grandson. That boy needs to learn what it's like to hang out to dry. Not that he isn't capable of great things, but I don't think he ever truly learned what it is to have to rely solely on his own wits.”

 

“You think that Herr Ziegler coddled him?” Crawford asked.

 

“Maybe a little,” Stolle said with a wry smile. “I think Heinrich always saw Ilse when he looked at Frans. The system's recognition of Frans' lineage didn't help, though. Who knows what will happen with Heinrich is gone.”

 

“About this mess with Maslovsky—“

 

“Forgotten,” Stolle said. “Truthfully, I always found it a little suspicious how well behaved Schuldig had been these past few years with you. Telepaths will be telepaths, and Schuldig had always been particularly unruly.”

 

This shocked Crawford. He hadn't expected Stolle to give in so easily, even if he did like Crawford. He wondered if the man was doing this out of a favor to a dying friend.

 

“It's nothing like that,” Stolle said.

 

“I didn't realize I was being so loud,” Crawford said.

 

“You weren't. I know people, though.” Stolle laughed. “I just like seeing that Russian dog squirm. He has always been too full of himself.”

 

Crawford allowed himself to give a small laugh. “It is satisfying.”

 

“I want to know something, though,” Stolle said. “Does your telepath enjoy being slapped around? In the bedroom, I mean.”

 

And suddenly Crawford was tense all over again. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss with Viktor Stolle. Stolle looked surprised, then started to laugh.

 

“You _have_ changed!” he said. “I remember a time when you thought nothing of the discussion of sex. It was all business, as I remember.”

 

“It's not...” Business, he wanted to say. It was pleasure. All pleasure. Crawford's memory flashed back to his conversation with Farfarello. _I see it sometimes_ , the Irishman had said. _When you think no one is looking_. He drove the memory back down.

 

Stolle's mouth curled into a smirk, and he leaned back smugly.

 

“That is very interesting,” the old man said. “Let me ask you this, then. Are you a sadist?”

 

Crawford was more comfortable talking about this. It was a conversation he had had with Stolle many years ago, and the answer hadn't changed.

 

“Yes.” As much as ever.

 

Stolle nodded. “The reason I asked about your telepath is a running theory I have, and which I should like to confirm. I do not believe a telepath is capable of being a sadist without some degree of masochism. It comes with the territory of sharing another person's mind. And Schuldig is most certainly a sadist.”

 

“Are _you_ a masochist?” Crawford asked.

 

“I as good as said I was. So?”

 

Crawford considered for a moment how much he was willing to give up.

 

“You realize it's not the same as with you,” he said. “If you know that Schuldig is a sadist, and believe that he has masochistic qualities, you must know it's not the same. His enjoyment does not come from physical pain. Anyway, I wouldn't hurt him. Not the way I sometimes I want cause harm.”

 

“So why the continued desire?”

 

“I thought this was about telepaths and masochists.”

 

“We'll come back to that in a moment,” Stolle said.

 

Again, Crawford considered what his answer would be. Finally, he said, “Adrenaline. And power. I enjoy the control.”

 

Stolle looked fascinated. “He bends to your will? Not too easily, I hope.”

 

Crawford took a moment to compose his thoughts, disguising it as a study of his drink. “What do you think?” he said, finally.

 

Stolle nodded. “I see. One more question, and then you may leave.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Have you ever allowed yourself to enjoy hurting another person? Truly enjoy it?”

 

At this, Crawford was able to smile. “How do you think Schuldig and I first truly connected?”

 

This caused Stolle to laugh, and Crawford relaxed further.

 

“I want to ask you one thing,” he continued. “Did Maslovsky come to see you yet?”

 

Stolle scoffed. “Back to him again!”

 

“Humor me? For Herr Ziegler?”

 

“Of course he did,” Stolle said. “He came whining about his rights, and that it's not fair that you think you can get away with this. As if it was decided that you would. Truthfully, I _hadn't_ decided one way or the other, until he started acting like a slighted child.”

 

“Thank you, Herr Stolle,” Crawford said, nodding his head.

 

The drink burned on the way down. Crawford left the room satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm actually really starting to feel the itch for backstory...)


End file.
